Thank You Mom!

As a little girl, the thing I probably hated most in the world.... was getting sand between my toes.

To keep me from whingeing on the beach, my mom would carry me all the way from the grass to the water's edge to paddle and then back again.

"Look! Yucky sand between my toes!" circa 1977

Thank you mom for all the little things you have done for me....

Happy Mother's Day!

10 Things I Learnt This Christmas...

1. Christmas is definitely way more magical when you’re a child…. the excitement on my little nieces’ faces when they were tearing open their presents under the tree was quite something to behold.

2. Christmas presents are far more sophisticated these days than when I was a child… way back then, the only “blackberry” we had heard of was a fruit typically found with apples in pies!

3. Garden furniture is very handy for indoor use when you have a load of Christmas visitors to fit around the dinner table.

4. My culinary skills are definitely improving, even if I say so myself… I made a very tasty lamb stew for Christmas Eve supper, a full roast beef dinner (with roast potatoes, glazed carrots, green beans, mini Yorkshire puddings, and port and red onion gravy) for Christmas Day, and then fall-off-the-bone tender roast chickens with a medley of roasted vegetables for Boxing Day. And nothing got burnt… well, apart from those leftover Yorkies that I was trying to warm up under the grill!

5. I also make a mean Christmas cake… perhaps it was all that rum but it certainly went down well, especially with a hefty slice of “Double Gloucestershire” cheese on the side.

6. My Christmas trifle, on the other hand, needs some re-mastering… a tad on the bland side!

7. My usually tee-totaler mom becomes extremely chatty after three glasses of champagne!

8. ‘Love Actually’ is still my all-time favourite “Christmas” movie, but the novelty of ‘Merry Madagascar’ and ‘Shrek The Halls’ is wearing a little thin… not so much for my nieces though!

9. I’ll never tire of cheesy Christmas lights…. which is lucky, since my neighbours hold an annual “We have the cheesiest festive decorations” contest!

10. Someone clearly lacking in common sense and good taste has decided to can Satan’s green balls….I discovered this horror on a trip to the supermarket....

Effectively farts in a can.. or at least in the making!

My Family And Other Animals

Whilst going through some of my dad's things recently, I came across some vintage photographs of several family members, including my grandparents. I find them fascinating as they are of a generation that has now passed. Yet they remain forever captured in these photographs, these people who are a large part of my ancestry....

My paternal grandmother, Mary Eileen (left) and her sister,
circa 1919. I didn't inherit her blonde, curly hair but apparently I have her thumbs...I'll never really know as she died from cancer aged 56 before I was born.

My maternal grandmother, Anna Dorothy, circa 1922. She looks so sweet and innocent here, but my gran had a wicked side...she once told me that as a little girl she would stick pins through the end of her shoes and kick a little boy she hated (he the adopted son of her favourite aunt).

Anna and her father (my great-grandfather), circa 1929. He passed away when my gran was only 14, and, as the eldest child, she had to leave school and start work to help support a large family.

Two Likely Lads... my maternal grandfather, Cornelius (left) and one of his brothers. Both joined the South African Army at the outbreak of WWII. My grandfather (an engineer) never left the shores of South Africa but my great-uncle was sent to Egypt, where he claimed to have single-handedly defeated Rommel's Afrika Korps.

Another photo of my grandfather, with my mom as a little girl, circa 1942. My grandfather was quite a character... always the joker, and sadly a bit of an alcoholic. He lost his leg in a hunting accident when I was very small, and never really recovered. He died when I was 9 years old, and my gran came to live with us until she passed away in 1999, aged 80.

I don't have any early photos of my paternal grandfather, George (right) - this one is taken with my dad (left) on my brother's Christening Day, 1970. I only saw my grandfather a handful of times, as by the time I was born, he had emigrated to Australia and remarried. He lived there until his death aged 92 in 2003.

Both sets of grandparents on my brother's Christening Day, 1970

Do you know much about your grandparents or even your great grandparents?

My Dad

In the early hours of last Sunday morning (January 30th, 2011) my dad finally lost his long battle with cancer.

He was a brilliant, inspiring, funny and brave man who will be greatly missed by everyone who knew him.

My dad as a young man - circa 1960



A devoted husband, a loving father, and a loyal friend of many.

Wedding Day - 6th July 1963



A man with a positive outlook, who yelled "Bring it on!" at whatever life threw at him.

A hard-working man who wanted his family to have the best life possible.

My dad teaching me to swim - 1974

A perfectionist, who could repair anything and would not rest until he found a solution to a problem.

A man with a great thirst for knowledge, who read voraciously, graduated with a university degree in history aged 47, and taught himself how to program a computer back in the days when only a handful of people had even seen one.

An accomplished musician, and a talented golfer, rugby player and swimmer.

My dad playing his beloved violin - circa 1970

An eloquent man, with a great sense of humour and a love of political satire.

A man who laughed long and loud, and was not afraid to laugh at himself.

A man who packed a lot of living into his 75 years.

I am priveleged to have had him for my dad, and I am going to miss him more than I ever thought was possible.



Thicker Than Water

Cousins - I have a load of them....first cousins, second cousins, third and even fourth, cousins “by marriage, once-removed”. I’ve never really been that close to any of them apart from S, my mom’s sister’s daughter. Separated by just over a year in age and growing up only a few houses apart, we were inseparable as children...united against the rest of the world, and in particular, against her bullying younger brother.

Fairly early on, it was obvious that S had gotten the looks (tall and skinny with big blue eyes, excessively long black eyelashes, blonde hair), and (apparently) I’d got the brains. She was the confident one, Miss Popularity as a teenager...whereas I was the “sensible one”, the shy one focused on getting good grades at school (read "boring geek").

One of the few photos I have from my childhood (camera film was just not available in Zimbabwe in the late 1970s to early 80s) sums us up quite well I think...

The Age of Innocence - Christmas 1978 (?)

Despite the slightly bizarre part-obscuring of the scene by the photographer’s spectacle lens, you can see S blinking up at the sunlight but confidently facing the camera, while I preferred to hide behind my brother (the two us with our matching pudding basin haircuts, and him in those ‘Daisy Dukes’).

Unfortunately, her good looks didn’t guarantee S a particularly happy life. Her parents divorced when she was very young, and my aunt got remarried, to a truly wicked man. The type of man who thinks it’s fitting to take a 10 year old girl out to the car, point at the exhaust and tell her exactly how her dad committed suicide, instead of just telling her he was in a “tragic accident”.

Perhaps not having a strong father figure in her life drove my cousin into a series of dreadful relationships with abusive men and eventually into a marriage with a compulsive liar and conman. They parted company soon after their son was born, and not long before he was imprisoned for his crimes. For a "pretty white boy", serving any time in a Zimbabwean jail is effectively a death sentence.

Eventually, S moved south of the border to start a new life and give her son a better future. Things were finally looking up for her - she had a good job, she’d made new friends and she’d met a really decent man...one with a big kind heart, capable of giving her all the love she deserved. But sadly, that good man’s heart was not strong enough to withstand a massive coronary, let alone two.

I haven’t seen my cousin for over 10 years, but we’ve been in contact almost every day this past month. I hope that she can find the inner strength to pick up the pieces of her life, again...

In An Ideal World...

In an ideal world, I would not have spent the past week with my stomach tied up in knots of anxiety.

In an ideal world, there would be no diseases, no suffering, no cancer and its arsenal of horrible complications. My dad would not have needed an operation to circumvent such complications, an operation that would leave him so weak and dehydrated that his solo functioning kidney just couldn’t cope.

In an ideal world, we would have no need for intensive care units, and no one would ever have to walk quickly past other critically ill patients on life-support machines, desperately trying not to take in the seriousness of their situation, or see the young man crying quietly by the bedside of his unconscious father.

In an ideal world, no one would have to see their own dad looking so fragile and frightened, but so determined to keep fighting.

For the third time in just a year and a half my dad has been in a life threatening situation, but thankfully, he’s pulled through...again. He is slowly recovering, but he still has a long way to go.



The Original Prankster

Savage Chickens are found HERE

My mom has a wicked sense of humour and is a great fan of practical jokes. Probably the naughtiest (and most disgusting) prank she ever played was as a teenager. The victim...her aunt, a childlike woman (“a bit simple” as my grandmother used to say)...lived out of town, with her husband who worked on the asbestos mines. My mom and her younger sister would visit their aunt during school holidays, and would hardly get their feet over the doorstep before she would eagerly ask “Have you brought me a present?”

Usually there would indeed be a gift....a cake or perhaps some jam made by my grandmother....but on this occasion my mom decided she would take along a special little present of her own. She scooped up a large turd, freshly left on the back lawn by their Great Dane, sprinkled it with coloured hundreds and thousands and placed it daintily in a small cardboard box....like the ones favoured by fancy cake shops and patisseries.

"Ohhh, how lovely!" exclaimed her aunt when presented with the little box of delights....

"But wait, what's that awful smell?"

Yummy, mummy!

And Now For My Mom's Story

Today is Mothering Sunday in the UK...the equivalent to Mother’s Day, which falls on May 9th this year in most of the rest of the world. I've told you a bit about my dad's early life in my last post, so perhaps today is a fitting time to tell you a bit about my mom.

She was born in a small South African town, just a few days before the outbreak of World War II. My grandfather and most of his six brothers promptly signed up for active service, and while my grandfather never left the shores of South Africa as his welding skills were more valuable to the army on home soil, my mom’s uncles were sent to Egypt, where they claim to have almost single-handedly defeated Rommel’s forces.

Desert warfare

As for most families at that time, the war years were hard on my mom’s parents...they struggled to get by on my grandfather’s army pay, food was scarce and my grandmother was never well and often in hospital, leaving my young mom in the care of a cantankerous hostel owner. A year after the end of the war, my aunt was born....much to the disgust of my mom who longed for a new brother to replace the one she lost to pneumonia in 1941. My grandparents just managed to stop my mom from pushing her unwanted baby sister out of the window of a third floor apartment, otherwise she may have grown up an only child.

When my mom was nine years old, the family emigrated to the then British colony of southern Rhodesia. My grandfather was wary of the National Party that had come to power in South Africa in June 1948, and he believed that the family would have a better life north of the border. And so they packed up their belongings and took the train up to Salisbury (now Harare). I won’t dwell too much on the rest of my mom’s childhood... it was not a particularly happy one. My grandfather battled with alcoholism that made for an insecure home life and that would eventually destroy his health.

Salisbury

Luckily, my mom rose above these challenges and completed her school education aged 16 and entered secretarial college. Six months later she was a highly competent shorthand typist and soon found a job working in the offices of government.....she was working as a secretary there at the time Ian Smith unilaterally declared independence from Britain on 11 November 1965, and it was there in 1962 that she first met my dad, who at that time was working for the Rhodesian Tourist Board. They were engaged within six weeks, married a year later, and lived together moreorless happily ever after... through the turbulent 1960s and 1970s, the hopeful 1980s and the declining 1990s in Zimbabwe, until it became obvious at the start of the new century that they would have to move to safer pastures. The rest, as the saying goes, is history....

'The King' - my mom's first love

My Dad's Story

I wrote this quite a while ago and have been deliberating about posting it for ages. I'm not sure it will be of any interest to anyone...but then the same could be said for everything most of what I put up here. It may just give you some insight into my background.

When my dad was very ill last year, he started reminiscing a lot about his early life. I suppose having a serious illness does that to you....you start taking stock of what’s gone before, as you’re not sure what lies ahead. I’m going to tell you a bit about my dad’s early life, which I've pieced together from a lot of conversations.

He was born in 1935, just outside London....the second of five children (four boys, with a girl in the middle). The first three children were born within a couple of years of each other and then my grandmother had many miscarriages, which took a toll on her health. My dad’s other two brothers are 15 and 21 years younger than him, so they didn’t really play a part in his childhood.

My grandfather was a carpenter by trade and my grandmother was a skilled dressmaker.  During the Second World War, my grandfather managed a shipyard that converted merchant ships into gun battle ships. He also did repair work on some of the bombed buildings in London. He was in fact repairing the damage to St Pauls Cathedral when another bomb fell that destroyed his work and all his tools. My dad can remember the noise and fires from bombing raids over London vividly...every night his brother and he slept in a cold Anderson Bomb Shelter in their back garden, while my grandparents took their chances in the house, with my aunt who was just a baby. Luckily for them, no bombs fell close by.

St Pauls in 'The Blitz'

When we were growing up, my dad always used to harp on about he had to walk miles to school (in the snow of course, as it was apparently always snowing). In reality, school for my dad was just over the road from their house...we found this out years later when when he took us on a trip down Memory Lane to the places of his childhood. My grandparents both came from large families, so my dad had a load of aunts and uncles around while he was growing up. One of my grandfather's sisters had a child out of wedlock following a brief romance with a “Yank” soldier stationed in Britain during the war...it was apparently a big scandal in the family at the time.

After the war ended, Britain was a pretty grim place....London was virtually a bomb site, food rationing would carry on until the mid 1950s and jobs were scarce. So it was probably no surprise that my grandfather decided to move the family out to the then colony of Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), which promised a good life of hot sunshine, wide open spaces, good food and jobs for those willing to work. Along with masses of other immigrants, the family set sail from Southampton for the long voyage to Cape Town and docked into Table Bay on Christmas Day, 1947....my dad remembers it being a scorchingly hot day.

The Royal Visit, Cape Town 1947

From Cape Town, the family travelled up north by train, finally settling in Bulawayo. There my dad restarted school and also took violin lessons. He became an accomplished musician, and was even offered a place at the Royal Music College....but being a musician was not a manly enough job for any son of my grandfather, and the stubborn old man refused to sign the scholarship papers, thus dashing my dad's hopes of becoming a professional violinist. Instead, aged 16 my dad took up an apprenticeship as a printer (back in the days when printing was done by type setting), and his music became a hobby that still brings him much enjoyment today.

Bulawayo City Hall

As a young man, my dad had many sporting achievements...he played rugby at provincial level, was a strong swimmer and earned a life saving medal. He was passionate about cars and spent months overhauling a Jaguar E type, back in his carefree bachelor days. Always keen to study new things, he went to university as a mature student in the early 1980s to obtain his Bachelor's Degree in modern history, another of his great interests. I remember going to my dad's graduation as a young child, and I think he was quite proud to attend mine..... a good education for his children meant everything to him.

Type setting printers

When I was younger (and sometimes still today) I clashed with my dad over almost every issue. Possibly we have personalities that are a bit too similar...he is incredibly stubborn, argumentative at times, fanatical about everything he does and persistent to the very end. I think I'm the diluted version...

It's been a year since my dad was first diagnosed with advanced cancer. He is still going strong and the most recent scan shows no further disease progression. Sometimes stubborn persistence can be a good thing.

Party Like It's 1979

Birthdays these days come and go without much of a kerfuffle. Last night, B and me popped down to our local ‘gastro pub’ for a very enjoyable, yet quiet dinner and a 'couple' of glasses of wine, but that was all...

The days of wild, outrageously-themed parties, fuelled by obscene quantities of cheap alcohol and resulting in hangovers that last well into next week are long over for us. They sort of fizzled out when the seemingly never-ending round of raucous 21st and 25th birthday parties finally rampaged to an end in the last days of the 20th century. There was a momentary, half-hearted revival of the “Party Like It’s 1999” days for some 30th birthdays, but we never really got up off the couch long enough to cause a stir...we are officially Old Farts.

For me, the best birthday parties were those of my childhood. My birthday fell just before the end of the long, summer school holiday, when the days were hot and sunny and carefree. Birthday celebrations were simple affairs, usually only lasting a couple of hours at most and followed a set routine. The whole school class would be invited to arrive promptly at 2 pm, when the festivities kicked off with the party games... predominantly running races but also the old favourites of pass-the-parcel, balloon relay, musical bumps and scavenger hunt.

My older brother took charge of the games at my birthday parties...what a great brother! you’re probably thinking, but he did have an ulterior motive. Any prizes left over at the end of the party would usually be divided up between the two of us, so he suggested “Let’s not be too quick to dish out the prizes, Nat....the more left at the end means more for us!” I was not 100% keen on his plan, finding it a tad unfair on our gift-bearing guests...but back in those days I believed Big Brother knew best.

BB decided we’d set the bar high....awards would only be given to the winner of three races in a row, and then it was a chocolate frog or lollipop only for the child in first place, nothing for any others. As the house that my family lived in at the time had a huge garden that backed onto vacant scrubby bushland, these running races became mini marathons....and had two friends reaching for their steroid pumps long before the games were over. Strangely enough, before responding to their invites to my birthday party the following year, the asthmatic duo first asked if BB would again be organising the party games....

Hot and exhausted from all that running about, we’d gather round the dining room table, which would be laden with the feast that Mom had probably spent most of the previous week preparing. A typical menu at my parties would be a salty/sugary/E-number overload from a combination of crustless sandwiches, sausage rolls and mini meatballs, crisps, cheesey curls, fairy cakes, rainbow jelly cups, biscuit happy faces and ice cream cone clowns, all washed down with lemonade or cream soda.

The party would culminate in the age-old rendition of “Happy Birthday”, with blowing out of the candles and cutting of the novelty birthday cake...again imaginatively and painstakingly created by Mom. My favourites were a guitar (with liquorice strings), a chocolate cat (with liquorice whiskers) and a kitchen stove (complete with chocolate biscuit dials). Every child went home with a 'present' of a piece of cake wrapped up in a paper napkin (and the more athletic ones with a chocolate frog or lollipop).

As we grew older, the parties became more sophisticated and expensive, and therefore restricted to only close friends. Two of the more memorable ones I was invited to were lunch at Wimpy (hamburgers and milkshakes) followed by a trip to see 'Canonball Run' at the cinema, and an afternoon of unlimited ball sinking at the putt-putt (miniature golf) course. Summer swimming parties and sleepovers were all the rage aged about 10 to 14, and thereafter childish birthday parties were replaced with the dreaded teenage (boy-girl) parties....

Those painfully awkward times are best left forgotten.

Savage chickens found HERE

Christmases Past

The very first thing that I learnt when I came to live in the UK was: Never use the word "pants" when refering to your trousers, as this can lead to embarrassing situations. For example, on a windy day, saying "I'm glad I wore pants!" (as opposed to a skirt) implies that you would typically Go Commando. On the other hand, if something is described as being pants, it means it's going horribly wrong, as in "This weather is pants!".....which brings me nicely onto the second thing I learnt.

British people have a love/hate relationship with the weather in general, and in particular with snow. It doesn’t actually snow very often (at least not down in the south), so there is great excitement when the white stuff does make a rare appearance. That excitement is pretty quickly replaced with collective annoyance as the country rapidly grinds to a halt....airports close, the transport system packs up shop and Davina McCall is forced to spend the night in her car, her fingers frozen to her iPhone as she bravely “tweets” through adversity to reassure loving fans she is still alive.

Nonetheless, snow at Christmas time is highly desired... but most years, the bookies profit while the nation’s hopes of a Dickensian scene are dashed. This year, expectations are greater than usual ...the snow that fell three days ago is still lying on the ground with more predicted to be on the way. Will this be the year we finally get to experience a "white Christmas"...or will all our dreams turn to slush?

After growing up in the southern hemisphere, where Christmas lands slap bang in the middle of summer, it took me a couple of years to get used to this reversal of seasons. Christmas days of my childhood were likely spent gathered around the pool, and lunch was typically cold ham or chicken and salads, or a barbeque/braai, depending on your cultural leanings. My family often spent Christmas on holiday in South Africa, on the southern KwaZulu-Natal coast. For landlocked Zimbos, going “Down South” was lekker, man... a holiday of sun, surf and sand and the opportunity for a shopping spree. In the early 1980s, everything was scarce in Zimboland...toothpaste, light bulbs, toilet paper (I shit you not!). People horded basic goods and everyone knew someone who had just returned from South Africa and was selling tins of sardines or Oil of Ulay at inflated prices.

My parents had a Citroen DS,  like this one....

Equipped with a massive boot, spacious back seat and hydropneumatic self-leveling suspension, the DS was perfect for carting goodies back over the border. Laden down with all our Christmas presents and a year’s supply of tinned fish, dried fruit and toiletries, it’s a wonder the weight of the car didn’t break Alfred Beit Bridge, landing us all in the croc-infested waters of the Limpopo.

One of the most traumatic events of my early life occurred during one such shopping spree, at a large department store in Durban. My parents went off to buy our Christmas presents, leaving me in the care of my older brother....only he wandered away in search of Scalextric cars and I was suddenly all alone.

Terrified, I started running up and down the shop aisles desperately looking for my Mummy....and ran straight into the arms of a burly shop assistant. He took me, screaming and struggling, to the store’s office, where the store manager tried to find out my name so that he could send out a message to my parents over the PA system. I was offered bags of sweets, but I was having none of it.....didn’t my mom always say I was not to talk to strangers? Well this candy-touting dude looked pretty strange to me and I took my mom’s instructions to heart (at the age of 6, I punched the doctor who was trying to examine me as my mom also said I was never to let anyone touch me).

Eventually, the store manager made an announcement that a little girl with long dark hair, wearing pink shorts and a purple top, and refusing to talk is looking for her mom and dad. Luckily, my parents immediately realised that little girl was me and were over to fetch me in seconds. As for my errant brother, he was unperturbed by my absence and then highly disappointed that I’d turned down the offer of unlimited sweets.

Aren’t brothers just the best?

A Bad Bout of Hypochondriatis

Savage Chickens found HERE

 

To say that my granny was obsessed with her health throughout her 80 years on this earth would probably be an understatement. For most of the time I knew her, she was never a very well person and she was on a potentially lethal cocktail of drugs for a multitude of ailments. In her last days, she was really ill with a failing heart, and was almost bent double from osteoporosis, which I now realise was thanks to her not getting HRT after a full hysterectomy aged just 34. But hey, it was the 1950s and what did they know?

I think my granny was actually quite a lonely person, and her preoccupation with illnesses filled the void and earned her some much craved attention. By the time my grandfather passed away and granny came to live with us in the mid 1980s, she had only two friends left in the country...all the others had either emigrated and lost touch or popped their clogs. One of those two friends was a former Follies dancer, now almost crippled with arthritis and not able to move out of her care home, but still lively in mind and spirit. The other old dear was quite mobile, but shared my granny’s passion for all things relating to bad health. When the two of them got together, they would talk for hours about ill they had been, were currently and expected to be in the near future.

I reckon you can talk yourself ill.

One day, my granny had been to the doctor for her monthly check-up....always a bit of a highlight for someone so keen on discussing her own health. She came home in particularly high spirits that day and announced that the doctor had told her she had malaria. We were puzzled...sure malaria is rife in Zimbabwe, but not in the capital city where we lived....and definitely not during the dry season (and the dust bowl pretending to be a garden was a bit of a giveaway that the rains had yet to arrive).

My granny was adamant she had a tropical fever: “I feel all hot one minute and cold the next!”. Naturally concerned, my mom phoned the doctor to confirm. He was as astonished as we were, “Malaria?! Well, she must have caught that between my office and home, as I’m treating her for arrhythmia!” In her haste to get to her doctor’s appointment that morning, my granny had forgotten to put in her hearing aid. Now it all made sense...

Could have been worse, I suppose...she could have gone to him suffering with a Glue-Ear, and come away telling everyone she had a bad case of diarrhoea...or even worse... gonorrhoea!

It’s been 10 years since my granny passed away. I wish I’d gotten to know her better, but I didn’t...as I was foolish and selfish in my youth and believed there were many better ways to spend my days than chatting to an old and (sometimes awkward) lady.

May she rest in peace and good health.

And Now For Some Good News...

My dad saw his oncologist today...12 cycles of chemo down and he has responded well and the cancer is being held at bay. He'll be having a bit of a break from the noxious chemicals to give his body some time to recover, before the next round.

It's a happy day!

Child's Play

This past weekend, our 16-month-old goddaughter came to visit with her parents and 4-year-old sister. A and M are really delightful children - sweet natured, fun to be around and easy to please. It was the first time, however, that they were coming to stay overnight and we weren’t too sure what to expect. True to form, I went for the “Plan to the Last Detail” option...so in anticipation of their visit, we’d stocked up on what we hoped would be suitable tots’ fare (fish fingers, mini pizzas, frozen peas and chocolate yoghurt pots), we’d dug out all the animated DVDs we own and had researched suitable (hopefully fun) activities in the area.

Within seconds of their arrival, our usually neat and uncluttered childfree couple’s home was snowed under the metric tonne of (necessary) paraphernalia that seems to accompany small people....bright pink and purple miniature coats and dinky boots lined in the hallway, toys and books were strewn across the lounge, a rainbow of plastic plates, non-spill cups and cutlery occupied half the kitchen work surface and there was a game of furniture tetris being played out in the guest bedroom, to accommodate the travel cot and inflatable mattress that had been added to the residential twin beds, wardrobe and sets of drawers.

Their visit coincided with the worst storm to hit Britain in a year...so anything outdoors was ruled out on the Saturday. Instead we took them to an indoor “soft play” centre with loads of slides, ropes and ball pools....and (thankfully) a coffee shop where adults can take refuge. Anyone contemplating parenthood should probably be required to visit places like this as a training exercise....or perhaps an acid test to see if they can hack it. I certainly took strain from the assault on the senses of hordes of excited children letting off steam, tots throwing tantrums left and right (not our party of course!)....and from getting bombarded from all angles by flying plastic pool balls. Quite literally, an in-your-face reminder of why I’m happy to remain on the sidelines as an auntie and godmother, but no more.

The girls had a fabulous time playing and were worn out by the end of the afternoon...which meant they happily had supper, were bathed and in bed well before 7 pm, leaving their exhausted parents (and even wearier godparents) to spend some adult time together. A chicken was roasting in the kitchen oven, we were onto the second bottle of wine and, as it was a chilly night, we thought we’d fire up our rarely used gas stove for a cosy ambience. Pretty soon, a plume of grey smoke started billowing out the front of the stove. At first I didn’t take too much notice, quelling our friends' curious looks, with “Don’t worry; it normally does that, just a bit of dust burning off the surface of the coals”. However, when dense black fumes started filling the lounge, I decided to take a closer look and spied what appeared to be a foil package smouldering on the top of the oven. The package turned out to be a pack of blackcurrant vitamin pastilles, slowly melting into a pool of burnt sugar. It was probably “posted” through the slot at the top of the stove by one of the girls at some point earlier in the day. No serious damage done....once the stove had cooled down and the top plate removed, the congealed syrupy mess could be easily scrapped away. There is a prevailing smell of chargrilled blackcurrants that will probably be with us for a while yet.

By Sunday, the weather had cleared and we were all keen for a bit of fresh air and sunshine. For the first time in the five years we’ve been living in our village, we went down to our local park so the girls could play on the swings...I say girls, but we all had a go, including their 6-foot-7-inches tall Daddy (his legs tucked awkwardly underneath the swing bucket). Not surprisingly, I haven’t been on a swing for a few decades. I found it quite exhilarating....the wind in your hair, the feeling of (almost) flying....it transported me right back to my childhood. Does give a whole new spin on having a “swinging weekend” though...

Birthday Bash

It was my mom's 70th birthday recently. To mark the occasion, B and I splashed out on a private lunch for family at a country hotel in Kent... a manor house that was once home to emminent politicians, writers, Lords and Viscounts, set within 22 acres of rural parkland.

We were seated in the library....surrounded by hundreds of interesting (and probably highly valuable) old books, we munched on

Smoked Ham and Poached Leek Terrine, Apple Chutney
Slow Braised Blade of Beef, Caramelised Carrots, Cocotte Potatoes and Morel JusSharp
Lemon Tart with Lavender Crème Fraiche Ice Cream

And for the children:

Seasonal Fruit Platter with Mixed Berry Coulis
Roast Chicken Breast with Potatoes and Seasonal Vegetables
Ice Cream

We had a bottle of bubbly with the starter and tea and coffee was served with a birthday cake I'd ordered and delivered to the hotel early in the morning.

The food was excellent and all in, it was a lovely day, although my dad was taking a bit of strain (this was the day before he was admitted to hospital with the blood clot). My niece, J, loved the experience...."It's all so posh!". Her younger sister was less impressed, stuffing herself on bread rolls then complaining she was "Full from my brain to my toes!", but not suprisingly quickly finding an appetite for ice cream....and the handmade chocolates that came with the coffee.

Happy Three-Score-n-Ten -Years birthday Old Q!

Back On The Radar

Last week was a tough one. After a good 12-week run with relatively few side-effects, my dad's chemo bit back, and we were reminded of just how delicate the treat/poison balance really is....

He'd been experiencing debilitating chest and shoulder pains that he insisted were nothing more than trapped wind. In fact, he'd developed a dangerous blot clot in his left lung, that thankfully was picked up on his routine scan, and he was whipped into hospital for some hard-core blood thinning treatment. Now safely home, he is fast resembling a pin cushion and will be getting daily heparin jabs for the forseeable future. On the plus side, his oncologist is pleased that the chemo seems to be stopping the cancer from spreading, and he will be carrying on with more cycles with the double-hard-ass stuff as long as he can handle it.

And so we continue....

Emotionally, I feel like I've been whacked over the head with a very big stick. I'd almost gotten used to the fact that my dad was living with cancer and that the future was uncertain. The whole dreadful business had settled into the back of my mind. It's all now just been brought back into focus.

On Godmothers (Fairy And Otherwise)

My dad has started his second cycle of chemo...so far so good again and he's feeling OK. Cross fingers, hold thumbs, knock on wood, hope, pray...and wish.... that it continues to be so and that the treatment makes a difference.

Do fairy godmothers still grant wishes?


As a small child, I used to confuse my real godmother with the benevolent fairy of some of my favourite, made-for-Disney stories. The two were not that different really...she lived very far away (Cape Town) and sent me lovely presents for my birthdays and Christmas. I didn't really get to know my godmother until I was an adult. She was a spinster, who'd dedicated much of her adult life to looking after her aging parents. I later found out she'd passed up the chance to marry the love of her life because he was divorced and her parents did not approve of the match. Shortly after that, she'd had her heart broken by a cad who stole loads of her money and did a runner.

When I moved to Cape Town to study, my godmother became more a part of my life and it was kind of cool having her around. At least once a month she would pick me up from my halls of residence and take me back to her comfy flat for lunch or supper...always a treat to eat non-mass-produced food. When B came on the scene, she warmed to him almost immediately and extended her lunch invitations to him. For some reason we always seemed to end up having Sunday lunch with her the day after a heavy night of drinking and clubbing. Green about the gills, we'd both politely refuse the customary glass of sherry on offer, hoping we didn't still reek of cheap booze. A bit straight-laced by nature, my godmother did not completely approve of my student lifestyle (and she got to hear the edited version). She was also not too impressed when B and I decided to "live in sin" but did offer us some much needed pots and pans for our sparsely furnished flat. Needless to say she was overjoyed when we finally decided to make honest persons of ourselves and get married.

Now that I'm living in the UK, I keep in touch with my godmother by the odd phone call - she phones me on my birthday, I phone her on hers, and she's become quite deft at sending text messages. It's now my turn to send her gifts... she's a suduko fanatic, but refuses to pay the greatly inflated prices of puzzle books in South Africa...so it's easy to pop a book in the post to her.

On Sunday I'm becoming a godmother myself for the second time round.....something I am quite excited about. Wonder if I'm qualified?

B and I have decided to remain childfree....simply because we do not want children of our own. I like children, and enjoy those of others...but have no desire to have them around 24-7. I knew in my early 20s that motherhood was not for me, but everyone said that I would change my mind, my biological clock would start ticking and I would start wanting a baby....well, either I'm deaf or my clock needs a new battery, as in my mid 30s I feel even less inclined. Luckily, I'm from a generation and culture where it is acceptable for a woman to remain childless, and more importantly, I'm married to a man of the same opinion....well, we wouldn't have gotten married if we differed over something so fundamental.

I am alway very happy when friends or family who really want children start a family, and it's great to see the joy they get from their children. It's flattering to be asked to be a godparent by your friends...I hope that I will be a good one and make some positive contribution to my goddaughters' lives.

Micro Update

Good news....my dad's cancer has not spread to his lungs and his liver is still clear.

Thank God!

He started the chemo yesterday and so far things are going OK....touch wood! Isn't it funny how superstitious and spiritual we become when faced with aversity? I'm the first to admit I'm a "bad weather believer"....I'd like to think I'm not just a "fair weather friend".

Slovenia and Northumberland were both great...will let you know more soon.

First Gear

I seem to be gradually pulling myself together.

My dad is constantly in the back of my mind... he's the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thought before I doze off at night. But the constant, sharp, aching fear of last week is slowly ebbing into a dull, background anxiety. I can focus on work - last week was just a mess.

It's now a waiting game... waiting for dad's CT scan on the 31st May, waiting for the appointment with the oncologist on the 2nd June, at which he'll learn if his lungs and liver are under threat too (cross all appendages that all is clear!)... then waiting to start the chemo... and waiting to see how it goes.

I want all these things to be done with but at the same time I want the sands of time to slow right down to a trickle through that great hourglass of life. There may only be a bit of time left.

Busy days ahead... the outlaws return from their cruise of the Med at the end of the week, it's a long weekend of entertaining them (no doubt in the pouring rain!) and then I'll be in Slovenia for a conference next week. Back a couple of nights before we all head up to Northumberland for a few days ... I'll be up there when my dad gets his scan results... wish I could be with him, but let's hope it's good news that comes by phone.

Paper Thin

I'm feeling rather fragile.

I can put on a brave face when I need to, when I speak to my dad it's all "Pah! Cancer... we do not fear you, we spit in your eye and defy you!" But when I'm alone I just want to scream "Help! I can't cope with this!"

My dad is showing great spirit - he wants to give the chemo a go and go in guns blazing with the really nasty stuff... more potential risks but greater chance of benefits. It will all depend on how he handles the drugs. Before he can start, he needs another scan - to check if the cancer has spread to the lungs or liver... the liver was clear two months ago, but his chest was not scanned at the time. Hope upon hope that lungs and liver are still clear...and also that the docs pull finger and get him into the system asap! On the plus side he has gained back nearly two of the 10 kilos he lost in hospital.... the stronger he is going into chemo, the better his chances of coping with the fatigue.

B and my friends have been so supportive - it is great to be with people who care but at the same time it can be a bit hard as they want to know what's going on and I do want to talk about it but then get overwhelmed by the enormity of it all when I do. I'm also concerned I may overburden others with my worries.... overload them with details they don't need to know.

I wish I could shake myself up, pull myself together and get on....chin up, old girl and all that!